


The First Adventure of Sherlock Holmes

by Jlocked, The_Lady_of_Purpletown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221 Baker Street, Chocolate, Cute, Gen, Kidlock, London, Murder, Mystery, Pirates, Running Away, biscuits - Freeform, boat trips, skull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6642505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jlocked/pseuds/Jlocked, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Purpletown/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Purpletown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a row with Mycroft, seven-year-old Sherlock runs off to London all on his own. He is found by a nice lady, but she turns out to have a dark past…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him.” Sherlock kicked at a stone and tried to picture it as Mycroft’s head as it skidded over the pavement and tumbled into the gutter. It made him feel marginally better.

He glanced over his shoulder at the large house, noting with some satisfaction that all windows were still dark. So his escape had not been discovered yet. Of course not. Mycroft had been snoring up a storm when Sherlock snuck out. No wonder, considering the amount of weight he had been putting on since Christmas. 2.4 pounds at least. Maybe 2.6. Mother really should find a better place to hide the biscuits.

If Sherlock could find them in less than five minutes, it would be even easier for his brother who was not only older and taller but, according to himself at least, more than twice as smart as Sherlock. As if! Mycroft wasn’t smarter. He just knew more. Because he’d gone to school longer.

Sherlock had been going for almost two years now. And he had learned a lot of stuff. Not as much as he’d been teaching himself at home, obviously, but enough to appreciate the necessity of being educated and the power that came with knowledge and skill.

So, determined to learn as much as possible, as fast as possible, Sherlock had been sneaking into Mycroft’s room almost daily for the past year. Going through his books and learning all sorts of new stuff. A lot of it didn’t make sense, since he lacked context, but he would store it away for later use.

He’d also learned some stuff he wished he hadn’t. Like the time he had come across one of Mycroft’s old diaries. From around the time Sherlock was born. His brother had really not appreciated the addition to the family. He had described infant Sherlock as smelly, wrinkly, loud and most of all stupid. Imbecilic. Moronic. Simple.

Sherlock had never really admitted to himself how much he admired his older brother. Not until the moment when he realised how much his brother detested him. The moment he decided that from now on he didn’t like his brother. He didn’t like him one bit.

After that, Sherlock had ignored anything personal in his brother’s room, focusing on the textbooks. He liked the ones about chemistry, biology, physics and maths. They were hardly touched since Mycroft fancied himself a politician. He was going to go to Cambridge as soon as he'd finished at Harrow. He got good grades in every subject, of course, but the only ones he really cared about were the ones having to do with history and politics.

Those books were terribly dull. Sherlock only looked in them when he was really really bored. Sometimes he’d find some funny stuff, but most of it was just stupid. Mycroft was stupid for caring about such things. Mycroft was stupid, period.

Sherlock was the smart one and as soon as he was old enough to take the interesting classes, he’d show them all. He’d start uni at 15. 14, maybe! And Mycroft would be so jealous. So jealous that his stupid face would turn bright green.

Sherlock was so smart that Mycroft never knew he had been in his room. Until today. And it really wasn’t Sherlock’s fault he had gotten caught. Mycroft had deviated from his usual behaviour. He always took a bath after supper. 7.5 minutes to fill the tub, 20 minutes to soak and then 3 to wash his hair, 4.5 to dry and drain the tub. So when he headed for the bathroom, Sherlock knew exactly how long he’d have to study.

But today, for some reason, Mycroft had only soaked for 10 minutes. And Sherlock had been so engrossed in a very detailed illustration of the various layers of skin on an adult male human, that he had not heard his brother until he was standing in the door to his room.

The row had been brief but vehement and ended in Sherlock running to his own room, slamming the door behind him. If Mummy had been home, she would have intervened. Told Mycroft that he was being unreasonable. But not only were their parents out of the country, they had left Mycroft ‘in charge’.

Sherlock huffed and kicked another stone.

He had stayed in his room until his brother had gone to bed, and then he had packed his bag, tiptoed to the upstairs bathroom and climbed down the drainpipe. And here he was. Off on his own, on his way to adventure and greatness. And where better to start than London?

 

Luckily, the local station had quite recently had a ticket machine installed, so he would not have to face any awkward questions before he was actually on the train. And he had that part figured out too.

There were very few passengers at this late hour, and as soon as the train was in motion, Sherlock hurried out to the toilet and locked it from the outside. He returned to his seat, just in time to smile at the conductor and tell her that: “Ma let me hold the ticket while she went to the bathroom. See? I have the ticket. Will you punch it, please?” He blinked and tilted his head in the way that made a single curl fall down over his eyes. The conductor smiled and told him that he was a very sweet and clever boy and his mother must be very proud of him.

As soon as she was out of sight, he went to unlock the toilet door and then moved to a different seat. There were only two stops before London, so avoiding the conductor on her subsequent trips through the train wasn’t as much hassle as he would have expected.

And then he was there. Victoria Station. London!

The tube was closed for the night, so Sherlock set off on foot, making his way to a nearby park, where he found a bench, shielded on three sides by large bushes. He got a thin blanket out of his bag and settled down, only shivering a little.

Why did Mycroft have to be such a git? And why now? Couldn’t he have waited for summer? So it wouldn’t be so unbearably cold?

 

…

 

“Ooh-oo!”

Sherlock was startled out of a confusing dream by the strange sound. It took him several seconds to figure out that he was not in his bed and then remember where he actually was and why. He opened one eye. It was considerably lighter than when he got here, but not yet full daylight. So very early morning. Why was some crazy lady roaming the park at this hour? He shrugged. It was no concern of his. He pulled the blanket further up, determined to go back to sleep.

"Ooh-oo!" it sounded again. "Excuse me." Someone gently touched his shoulder.

With a startled squeak, Sherlock sat up, blinking at the woman who was looming over him. "Don't... Don't hurt me..." he gasped, before he could compose himself enough to realise that the dark blonde woman, obviously, posed no threat.

"Oh, poor dear," she said, taking a step back and holding up her hands. "Look, I'm not attacking you. Did you run away from home?"

"No..." Sherlock lied. But he could tell she did not believe him, so he shrugged and muttered: "How did you know?" Maybe she was some kind of detective.

The woman smiled. "Well, look at you. I don't think you're used to sleeping outdoors. And you're only so young... No one would let you, if they knew."

"I don't care," Sherlock said, sitting up but keeping his blanket wrapped tightly around him. "Nobody tells me what I can and cannot do."

"Of course not," she said indulgently. "But you must be freezing. How about we find a warm, cosy place to talk?"

He looked up at her, at once suspicious. Had he read her wrong? Did she have sinister intentions after all?

But her expression spoke only of friendly concern with a hint of curiosity.

"We have nothing to talk about," he muttered. But he would like to get warm, so he hesitantly got to his feet.

"Well, we don't have to talk, but surely you'll want a cup of tea. Or hot chocolate, if you prefer," she said, giving him a friendly nod. "Be sure you bring everything with you." She looked at the bench to make sure nothing was left behind and then started walking towards the park's exit.

Carrying his blanket over one arm, Sherlock shouldered his bag and hurried after her. He was imagining the hot chocolate and they were almost out of the park, when he realised he had slipped his hand into hers.

It was nice and warm, but also absolutely mortifying. He was much too old for holding an adult’s hand when walking.

Sherlock wanted to pull his hand away but realised that would only draw more attention to it. Maybe she hadn't even noticed. She certainly didn't seem to mind.

"So what's your name, young man?" the woman asked as they were waiting to cross the road.

"Billy," Sherlock said quickly. "Billy Bones." He cringed. Seriously? He really needed to practise lying. "What's yours?" he asked, hoping to deflect any further questions.

"I'm Mrs Martha Hudson," she said with a sigh, as though something about that name was a reason for despair. But then she cheered up: "It's very nice to meet you, Billy."

"It's nice to meet you too, Mrs Hudson." He smiled up at her, trying to figure out what was bothering her. "You're very kind."

She laughed. "Oh, I try. And well, if I see an odd bundle of clothes on a bench during my morning walk, I'm too curious not to check it. Who'd have known I'd find a polite little boy!"

Sherlock giggled. "I guess that's not something you find every day." Mrs Hudson did not have children. But that was not what she was upset about.

"Quite right," she said. "Well, let's go in here." She squeezed his hand a little as she led him into a small teahouse.

"Do you like cake, Billy?" she asked as they sat down at a round table with a flowery tablecloth.

"I... No..." Sherlock stammered. He _did_ like cake, but about six months ago he had decided that cake was Mycroft's thing, so he wouldn't eat it anymore.

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said, a little disappointed. "They make the most delicious chocolate cake here. And the hot apple pie! Is there something else you'd like to eat, then?"

"Uhm... biscuits?" Mycroft did like biscuits too, but he preferred cake. Sherlock couldn't just avoid everything that Mycroft liked. Biscuits would be okay.

"Oh, of course!" She brightened up right away at the prospect of feeding him. "They have perfect biscuits, crunchy and buttery and with just a hint of cinnamon..." She gestured at the elderly waitress, who greeted her as though she knew her quite well and then took Mrs Hudson’s order.

"Who's your young friend then, Martha?" the waitress asked as she brought over a piece of apple pie and a stack of biscuits, along with some extra small plates filled with chocolates, marshmallows and other sweets.

"Billy," Mrs Hudson answered. "He's taking a little holiday and I'm watching over him. Poor thing would have caught a cold if I hadn't brought him here. Billy, this is Angela."

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock said. He squirmed a little in his seat. Now that he was finally getting warm, he was starting to notice another, suddenly quite urgent need.

Mrs Hudson frowned at him for a moment, then said: "Oh." She waited discreetly until Angela had returned behind the counter, and then whispered: "The bathroom's in the back, love. Just those two steps down and you'll see it."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, as he hurried off.

When he was washing his hands afterwards, he realised that he had left all his possessions with Mrs Hudson. He giggled. He must really trust her a lot.

He was practically bouncing as he returned to the table, only feeling a little bit disappointed when his hot chocolate wasn't already waiting for him.

"That's better," Mrs Hudson said, beaming at him. Then she called: "Angela, he's back!" She bent over the table to whisper again. "I told her to wait a moment with the drinks, as I wouldn't want your chocolate to cool down before you could get to it."

"That was very clever," Sherlock whispered back. Then he forgot everything else as the chocolate came close enough for him to smell. He sighed happily and his stomach made a rather rude but perfectly understandable sound.

Mrs Hudson giggled and picked up a fork to start on her pie.

An hour later, Sherlock was full of chocolate, biscuits, several other treats that Angela had slipped him and, most of all, the sincere fondness with which the two women treated him. Sherlock could not remember ever feeling this relaxed.

So relaxed, in fact, that he found his eyes drooping as he fought valiantly to suppress a yawn.

Mrs Hudson smiled. "You can't have been comfortable on that hard bench. Should we find you a bed? Or do you have other plans now?"

"I am off..." He yawned. "... on an adventure..."

"Oh, but I know all about adventures, and you definitely can't start one if you didn't get enough sleep," Mrs Hudson said. "You'll make all kinds of decisions that you’ll regret later."

That did make sense. Pouting slightly, Sherlock nodded. "You're right," he said. "I need to find a lair. Establish a base."

"A lair?" Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock blushed but nodded. "Yeah. Like a cave or a... or a cove... You know, to hide my treasure and rest between raids..." He'd never realised how silly it sounded, until he said it out loud. No wonder Mycroft mocked him.

"Treasure and raids... You're a dragon?" Mrs Hudson guessed.

"I'm a pirate!" Sherlock straightened his back and tried to look mean.

"Oh, of course!" Mrs Hudson said. "How silly of me. I should have seen it right away. And it's a good thing, too. I must admit I'd be rather reluctant to let a fire-breathing lizard into my new house, but surely a nice pirate won't do any harm."

Sherlock giggled. "You can trust me," he said. "I'll protect you from dragons and bullies."

"Oh, that's very nice! You're a true gentleman. For a pirate, of course." Mrs Hudson winked. "So do you want to come with me? Or is there someone you'd like to call first?"

"I have nobody to call," Sherlock said. "I'd like to come and see your house."

"Alright." Mrs Hudson waved at Angela, paid the bill and told her she'd see her tomorrow. Once outside, she flagged down a cab.

Sherlock had never been in a cab before. A proper London cab!

He examined the backseat thoroughly and then pressed his nose to the glass, watching the city glide by.

But long before they reached their destination, he had drifted off, curled up with his head in Mrs Hudson's lap.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock blinked sleepily. What a fascinating dream. He'd been the captain of his own ship, off on a daring quest. Aided by the benevolent Queen of... London...

He sat up and looked around. Where was he this time? It was not the park, but he had no memory of arriving at this place. The last thing he remembered was… the cab.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called as he jumped off the sofa, nearly tripping on the several layers of blankets that had been wrapped around him.

It was only a few seconds before the clicking of her heels approached. "Oh, careful!" she said, steadying him. "Here we are. Did you have a good nap?"

"I... Uhm... Yes," Sherlock said. "How long did I sleep?"

"Just a little over three hours," Mrs Hudson answered. "Are you hungry?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded. The biscuits had been good, but now his stomach was rumbling again.

"Good," she said. "I'll make some eggs and bacon and toast. Proper food for a strong pirate, don't you think?"

"Definitely!" Sherlock loved bacon and eggs. He flashed her his most brilliant smile. Then he looked around the room again, taking in the stacks of boxes and the sheets covering most of the furniture. "Woah... You weren't kidding. You really did just move in."

Mrs Hudson nodded, her face turning just a little sad. "I haven't been in London very long. Well, I always used to live here, but..."

He'd reminded her of something bad. Sherlock frowned. What would be the right thing to do here? Hesitantly, he stepped closer and then put his arms around her. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Aw, don't you worry about it, dear," Mrs Hudson said, giving him a small squeeze. "It's very good to be back. I'll take care of those eggs now, shall I?" She turned and walked to what must be the kitchen.

Sherlock located his bag and made sure everything was still there. Then he began exploring the room.

She had indeed just returned to London. To England, in fact. She had been living abroad for a very long time. Some place warm.

And she had not lived alone. Maybe that was why she was sad.

"Here you go, love," she said as she put a well-filled plate on the table. She smiled as she saw him look around. "I'm afraid this place isn't very exciting yet, but I hope to make something very nice of it when I have the time."

"It already is nice," Sherlock said, sitting down. He was going to elaborate, but lost his train of thought when he saw she had cut the toast into little figures. "Oh wow. That's amazing," he said. His mother never did anything like that.

Mrs Hudson beamed. "Oh, it's nothing. I haven't had many young guests before, and I thought I'd better make eating fun." She sat down too to watch him eat.

Sherlock wanted to be polite, but the food smelled so great that he just couldn't resist and soon had his mouth full of the perfect mix of bacon, eggs and toast.

"I think you will grow into quite the pirate," Mrs Hudson said with a proud look in her eyes. "Do you know yet what the next step in your adventures will be?"

"A ship," Sherlock said at once. "A pirate needs a ship. I figure I'll start with a small river boat since I'm not big enough to steer an ocean-going ship. That's why I came to London rather than head for the coast."

Mrs Hudson nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds like a good idea. In fact... I think I know someone who could help you."

"You... You know a pirate?" It was almost too good to be true.

"Well... Not really a pirate," Mrs Hudson admitted. "Although dear William does look a little like one, now you mention it. But he and his wife have a boat, and Marie's a good friend of mine, so I'm sure they'll want to show it to you. What do you think?"

"Does he wear an eyepatch?" Sherlock asked eagerly.

Mrs Hudson smiled. "No... He's still got his two eyes, fortunately."

"So did most pirates," Sherlock said, not managing to sound entirely uncondescending. "The eyepatches had nothing to do with injury." He laughed at her expression. "You see... Pirates often sailed the warmer latitudes. That meant a lot of sun. And with the added reflections from the sea, things were usually pretty bright. But below deck, they'd only have small oil lamps and such, so..." He squinted his eyes. "If a pirate went straight from the glaring sun down below, he'd be effectively blind for twenty minutes or more. So..." He was speaking faster now, as he always did when he got eager, but Mrs Hudson seemed to be keeping up. "They'd put a patch over one eye when they were on deck." He covered his left eye with his hand. "And then when they had to go below deck..." He held a dramatic pause while moving his hand over to cover the other eye, "they'd move the patch, so they could use the eye which was already accustomed to darkness. You know... where the pupil was dilated."

"Really?" She actually looked impressed. "I never knew that. It's quite interesting."

"I know," he said, nodding eagerly. "I've been reading tons of books about pirates. And I've even tried it out. I mean... I didn't have a ship, but I went into my closet and I could see a bit with the eye that had been under the patch."

"You are very clever!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "Now I'm even more convinced you'll be a skilled pirate."

"Of course I will," he said, puffing out his chest a little. "And maybe I can even teach your friend a few tricks."

"Very good," Mrs Hudson laughed. "He'll appreciate that." She stood up and took Sherlock's empty plate.

 

...

 

The walk along the canal was nice but a bit tedious, after Sherlock had gotten over the initial thrill of realising that there was a path down here, hidden from view from both streets and houses. He had tried pretending that they were on a secret trail, but that illusion was ruined by a fat jogger, dressed in a bright neon track suit, who had huffed and puffed past them. Sherlock scoffed. The man had only recently started exercising, by order of his physician. It wasn't going to save him from his impending heart attack, though. Not as long as he'd insist on having fish 'n’ chips four nights a week at the pub. The batter was going to kill him.

He considered telling Mrs Hudson this, but when he looked up at her, she smiled at him and seemed so happy that he suspected she wouldn't want to hear about death, even that of an annoying stranger with bad taste.

Then they turned a corner in the path and Sherlock was rendered speechless. There, right in front of them, lay not one but three long, low houseboats, moored to a rickety wooden bridge running parallel to the path. Two of them were a faded blue, but the one in the middle was painted bright green with a black roof and white deck and railings. It had empty flower boxes along the outer railing and two plastic deck chairs near the aft. On these, a couple who could only be Mrs Hudson's friends were lounging, the woman wearing a woollen cardigan over her flowery dress and the man dressed in velvet trousers and a flannel shirt. Both seemed quite engrossed in their books, but as Mrs Hudson called out, making that silly noise again, they both jumped to their feet, waving eagerly.

"Hello, hello!" Mrs Hudson called. "Billy, meet Mr and Mrs Turner. My young visitor here wanted to see the boat. Can we come on board?"

"'course!" Mr Turner said in a bark-like voice.

Sherlock was thoroughly disappointed. The man did not look anything like a pirate. Though... As his smile widened, Sherlock noticed several gold teeth. And that gleam in his eye. If he grew out his beard and put on a hat, Sherlock supposed he _could_ look a bit like a very friendly pirate.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," he said. "Ma'am." He nodded to them both.

"Oh, he's such a dear," Mrs Turner said, beaming at Sherlock. "Is he your nephew?"

"No," Mrs Hudson said, "he's a friend."

Sherlock blinked and looked up at her. "I... I am?"

"Of course you are," Mrs Hudson said, a little surprised.

"C'mere," Mr Turner growled. "I'll show yeh the boat."

While the women went below deck to make tea, Mr Turner took Sherlock on a tour of the boat. At first he tried explaining things, but Sherlock kept interrupting with elaborations and corrections, so soon the man kept quiet, letting Sherlock do the talking.

He did not seemed annoyed with him showing off. Instead, he kept chuckling and sometimes raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely impressed. Sherlock really liked Mr Turner.

He got quite excited when he noticed a place where the wood had been patched. "Have you been in battle?" he asked. "This looks like she was hit by a cannonball."

Mr Turner laughed. "Almost," he said. "Though the battle was really a storm and the projectile was a falling tree just outside of Bristol."

"Wow... You've been that far?" Sherlock gaped at the man, who was looking more and more like a pirate captain.

"We've been all over," Mr Turner said, smiling. "Come below and I'll show yeh the maps."

 

The women had just set the table for tea, but willingly helped move everything to one side so that Mr Turner could spread out the large maps on which he had marked all their travels.

"I'm so glad you brought Billy here," Mrs Turner said to Mrs Hudson with a fond look at her husband. "Everyone either already knows or doesn't really care where we've been, but he does so love to show off his maps."

Sherlock thought they were brilliant. Mr Turner had marked their journeys with red ink and had written small numbers at certain locations, which, he explained, corresponded to pages in a book containing both notes and pictures from their visit.

Sherlock felt like he could have spent years studying these records.

"Where will you be going next?" he asked, glancing at the few spots that weren't yet marked.

Mr Turner's smile vanished. "We won't be going anywhere," he said. "This is our final destination.”

"Oh..." Sherlock frowned. Then he gasped. How had he not seen it before? Mr Turner was ill. Not terminally, but he was receiving treatment. So they could not leave London. And he would be too weak to travel anyways.

Sherlock looked away. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Don't be," Mr Turner said at once. "It's still a good life. Ain't it, Marie?"

Mrs Turner nodded and took his hand. "If we had to strand anywhere, London sure was a good choice."

"Now, Billy," Mrs Hudson said, apparently eager to move on to lighter subjects, "would you like some tea? With milk?"

"Yes, please," Sherlock said. Then he noticed the plates of very yummy looking sandwiches and forgot all about sailing and Mr Turner's illness for a while.

While Sherlock enjoyed the sandwiches and tea, the adults talked. At first he wasn't really listening, but then Mrs Turner asked Mrs Hudson about her plans and his friend grew quiet for a moment and then whispered: "Not now."

So there was something she did not want Sherlock to know. It couldn't be about the house, because she had already brought Sherlock there and been so open and relaxed with him, he did not believe she had anything to hide there.

So it must be about something else. About something she hadn't brought with her, but left behind. Something or someone. He decided he would try to learn more. Mrs Hudson seemed sad. He would fix that. Somehow.

After they had cleared the table, Mr Turner announced that it was time to take the 'old girl for a spin'. Sherlock looked at Mrs Turner, frowning, but as the others laughed, he realised that Mr Turner had meant the boat.

"We're going sailing?" he asked. "Really?"

"Really!" Mr Turner confirmed.

While he started up the engines, Sherlock and the women released the mooring lines.

As the boat pulled away from the bank, the three of them went up to the stern to watch. But after a while, Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner retreated to the deck chairs and Sherlock joined Mr Turner at the wheel.

For some time, they sailed on in silence. The banks were surprisingly green, with small houses and pretty gardens. It was hard to believe they were still in the centre of London.

After turning the boat down a smaller, very straight canal, Mr Turner looked down at Sherlock. "Will you take the wheel for a bit?"

Sherlock cried out in happy surprise. "Really? I can?"

Mr Turner nodded and stepped aside. Sherlock's hands trembled as he took the wheel. He had to stand on his toes to see beyond the cabin, but it didn't matter. He was sailing! Really sailing!

He was Captain Blacklock in charge of this grand ship, about to take on the whole world. And no one could stand in his way.

"Ooh-oo," it sounded behind him. "Oh... I had no idea it was you at the wheel, Billy! Is it the first time you do this?" Mrs Hudson stopped next to Sherlock to look out.

It took him a second to remember that he was Billy. Then he nodded. "I... I guess so..." he said, the fantasy crumbling. "It's fun."

"You must be a natural," Mrs Hudson said. "I was convinced Mr Turner was still steering."

"Billy's such a clever lad," Mr Turner said. "Perhaps I should take him on as my first mate."

"That's mighty kind of you," Sherlock said, “but I'll be wanting a ship of my own." He didn't want to hurt the man by admitting that he did not want to work for someone whose poor health would get in the way of any real adventure.

Mrs Hudson giggled. "Where will you go when you have your own ship, Captain?"

"First I'll make my way up north," Sherlock said. "And then, when I have assembled a sturdy crew, we'll set out for the Americas. Maybe the Caribbean. Or Florida!" His eyes gleamed as he pictured it.

But Mrs Hudson's face fell. "Florida?" she repeated. "My dear boy, I'd go anywhere but there..."

Sherlock stared at her. Florida! So that was where she'd been living. And something terrible had happened to her. And now he had reminded her of it.

Sherlock didn't realise that he had completely forgotten about steering the boat before he felt Mr Turner put a hand on the wheel and turn it a little.

"Oh..." he gasped. "I'm sorry."

Mrs Hudson gave him a sad smile and patted his shoulder. "Perhaps you should go for a destination closer to home for now. Until you have a little more experience."

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. "I will. I do need more experience before crossing an ocean anyways. And a bigger boat."

 

For a while, they just watched the banks drift by. Eventually they had made their way around and were approaching their starting point again.

"Okay, young Billy-boy," Mr Turner said. "I'm going to need yer help securing the lines. Ready to jump ashore?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly and for the next ten minutes he was kept too busy to think. But once they had taken their leave, promising the Turners that they would visit again soon, he remembered the sadness in Mrs Hudson's eyes when he had mentioned Florida. As they walked back along the canal, hand in hand, he looked up at her. "Do you... want to talk about it?"

Mrs Hudson blinked, returning from a deep thought. "Talk? Oh... No, dear, don't worry about me. I'm just being a little silly. And I'm sorry about what I said. Florida can be quite nice. You just have to be careful, but I suppose that's always a good idea, not only there."

"Please don't lie to me," Sherlock said, frowning. "You've been so nice to me. I want to be nice to you too. Even if all I can do is listen. Sometimes talking helps."

Mrs Hudson smiled. "That's very sweet, Billy. But I don't want to burden you with this. It was my choice to get married and go to Florida. So I have to deal with the consequences myself. Talking isn't going to change that..."

"You never have to deal with anything alone," Sherlock said, echoing something his father had once said. "Not when you have friends. Are we not friends?"

"Oh, of course we are!" she said, letting go of his hand to hug him for a moment. "You're such a sweetheart. It's just... It's a long story. And I don't suppose you'll think very highly of me when you've heard it. After all... my husband is in prison now. I believe he is innocent, but..." She sighed. "I'd almost wish he wasn't."

Sherlock had to bite his lip not to cry out. This was the most exciting thing he had ever heard. But he managed to keep his tone soft and look concerned as he asked: "What is the crime? The one he didn't do?"

After a moment of hesitation, she answered: "He... They think he shot someone. With... a very, very big gun. And of course I don't want him to have actually done that. But... You must think me a horrible person, but I don't really want him out of prison. He... He's scared me."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Did he hurt you?" he asked.

"Don't be silly," she said, not quite looking at him. "I guess it's just... Well, he's been under a lot of stress lately, of course. With not being able to prove he wasn't with Carlos when... when it happened."

"So he doesn't have an alibi?" Sherlock frowned. That was never a good sign. "He wasn't with you?"

"He didn't at first. And it was all a bit odd, because I didn't know where he was that night. But then it turned out..." She cleared her throat. "It turned out he was with a good friend of his. Someone he'd never told me about."

"A girlfriend?" Sherlock blurted before he could stop himself. "I'm sorry,” he muttered. "But... Why is he still a suspect, then?"

"She showed up pretty late," Mrs Hudson answered, her voice sounding colder than Sherlock had heard it before. "Probably waited until someone else saved Frank's ar... I mean, delivered other evidence on the case."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded, his mind already racing to provide alternate explanations for her tardiness.


	3. Chapter 3

They didn't speak again before they were at the bus stop and Mrs Hudson asked what he would like for supper. They agreed on sandwiches, since she had not finished unpacking the kitchen, and they got off a stop before Baker Street so they could pick up some groceries. Mrs Hudson also bought some chocolates and a soda for Sherlock.

Sherlock almost never had sweets. Not because his parents were against it, but ever since Mycroft had started having problems with his weight, they tried to avoid having too much sugar in the house.

He was trying not to seem too eager as they approached the flat, but all he could think about were the chocolates. Mrs Hudson seemed to have cheered up too, and was telling him a funny story from when she was a little girl and had owned a budgie called Beaky which she had brought to school one day, where it got loose and scared her history teacher half to death.

But suddenly, as they turned around the corner, she stopped.

A young man was standing outside the sandwich shop, hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Sherlock wasn't sure how he knew, but at first glance, he was 100% certain that this man was not only from the police, but was here because of him.

He looked up at Mrs Hudson. "You said we were friends!" he cried, then turned around and ran.

But he didn't go far. As soon as he was around the corner, he ducked into an alley he had noticed before, hiding behind the bins.

Soon footsteps sounded nearby, and he held his breath.

"He's gone..." Mrs Hudson's voice sounded, out of breath and with a wailing tone to it. "Oh, I should have told Billy I'd have a visitor... At least he was safe with me, but who knows what sort of trouble he'll run into now..."

"It's not your fault," the young man said. "I should have known better than to wait by the door. I had been warned about him, but I guess I didn't think... I'm sorry."

"Warned about him?" Mrs Hudson asked. "What do you mean?"

"That he was a very clever child. But also incredibly stubborn." The policeman sighed. "His name isn't Billy, by the way. It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said. "He's a sweet lad, though. And his parents must be so worried. Could... Could I help you look for him, constable?"

The man sighed. "Just... keep an eye out for him. He might turn up again. You still have his things, right?"

Mrs Hudson gasped. "You're right. His blanket... Oh, he doesn't have his blanket! He'll freeze to death tonight, the poor dear..."

"I doubt it will be that bad," the man said, though he too sounded worried. "It won't be that cold. And his brother tells me he is very resourceful."

"I hope you're right... Poor Billy..."

"Sherlock," the man corrected her as they turned and walked back towards number 221.

Sherlock sat huddled on the ground, his arms wrapped around his knees. He was not crying. His nose was just a bit runny. Because of the cold. She had said they were friends. But she had called the police on him. Even before they went to visit the Turners. And Mycroft had, of course, told them he was missing.

But he wasn't going home. No way. He was going to become a pirate and no one could stop him. Not young, inexperienced constables. Not his stupid brother. And not cruel, lying women pretending to be his friend.

Sherlock sniffed. The man had been right about one thing. It wasn't going to get so cold that it would actually be dangerous. But it would be uncomfortable without his blanket. And he had other things in his bag. Things he would need to start his new life.

So he had to get back in.

He crept slowly towards the corner, and looked around it into Baker Street. There was no one on the pavement. The constable had probably left and Mrs Hudson must have gone inside. But then he heard her voice. He couldn't make out the words, but she was clearly not inside the house. Keeping close to the wall, he approached slowly.

The sandwich shop. She had gone in there, probably to tell them to keep an eye out for him. This was his chance.

He darted towards the black door, getting his little pocket knife out as he ran. The lock was old and opened easily. As he let himself in, however, he heard Mrs Hudson speak again:

"Thank you, Mr Georgiou! I'll be home tonight, so just give us a ring if you spot him."

Oh no... He had to hide. He looked up the steep stairs. He wouldn't make it up to the landing before she could open the door. So he headed for her flat, but then noticed the other door. Under the stairs and just a little ajar. Perfect!

He scrambled down the top steps and then froze as he heard her enter the hall. He held his breath, listening.

Mrs Hudson was sniffing too. It must be colder than he had thought.

She took an awfully long time getting to her flat, but finally she disappeared inside, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock would wait until tonight. Until she was asleep. And then he'd sneak in and get his things and be long gone before she even knew he'd been there.

But there was no point standing here on the stairs until then. He might as well do a little exploring.

Slowly he walked down the narrow stairs, squinting to see in the dim light from a small dusty window.

The door at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked. Sherlock opened it slowly, trying to be prepared for anything. What he found was terribly disappointing. Just an empty room, looking dusty and drab in the slanted light filtered through the faded curtains.

He went inside. It was a sitting room, but a small one. There was an empty fireplace, a mirror above it and an old-fashioned lamp hanging from a cheap stucco ring in the ceiling.

Boring...

Sherlock sighed and went over to check the door at the other end of the room, not expecting much.

A narrow hallway, leading to a tiny kitchen, an even smaller and very dirty bathroom and, at the very end, what had probably once been a bedroom. There were still marks in the carpet from where the bedposts had been, as well as a darker, greasy spot, where the occupant must have put his feet every morning when he got up.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Disgusting. Then he noticed an old wardrobe in the corner. It was large and made of dark wood and Sherlock couldn't help wondering how someone had gotten it down those stairs.

Since there was nothing else in the room, he went over and opened the door. And cried out in shock.

Right there, on the bottom of the left side lay... a human skull!

He slammed the door shut and ran from the room. But before he could bolt up the stairs, he stopped himself. He was being a baby! A stupid baby! A skull wasn't dangerous. Not at all. It was just a dead thing. Not much different from that lock of Mummy's hair that Daddy kept in his diary.

And so much more interesting. A skull meant that someone had died. That their head had been removed from their body. Like an execution. Or maybe a murder. Had someone been murdered down here? For a second he thought about the crime that Mrs Hudson's husband had been accused of. But that was silly. That murder had happened in Florida. And very recently. This skull was old. Maybe very old.

Curiosity got the better of him and Sherlock slowly walked back to the bedroom, opening the door of the wardrobe and looking down at the skull.

"Hello," he said. That was stupid too, but it didn't feel wrong. The skull had been a person once. And just because they couldn't answer him, didn't mean he had to stop talking to them. Right?

He knelt down and, hesitantly, reached out to touch the skull. It was cold. Cold and dry. He ran a finger along its brow. It wasn't as smooth as he had thought. Not like the plastic skull they'd shown them at school.

This was definitely a real skull.

He wished he knew of some way to determine how old it was. How long it had been lying there, hidden in the wardrobe.

One thing he knew for sure, though. It had been quite a while, judging from the heavy layer of dust. That was what Mummy always said: dust told secrets. If you only knew how to listen.

Once he was sure he had noticed everything about the dust and the placement of the skull, he picked it up - it weighed a bit more than he had expected - and carried it into the living room, where the light was better.

The first thing he did was examine the skull for any signs of violence. Fractures or scratches where a weapon might have been used. But it seemed to be in perfect condition. So the person must have been killed some other way. Maybe they were stabbed. Or hanged.

‘The person’... Sherlock thought that if he could find out who this was, it would be easier working out how and why they had died. The weight of the skull indicated that it was probably male. But that wasn’t conclusive. There were other signs, but Sherlock couldn’t quite remember what he was supposed to look for.

He settled down in the middle of the room, his back to the curtained windows. Cradling the skull in his lap, he closed his eyes. There was this trick that Mycroft had taught him. Back before he turned into a complete prat. He had told Sherlock how to remember all the things he read and heard without having it all rattling around his brain all the time.

Mycroft had explained how he had a sort of filing cabinet in his head, where he put everything into neat drawers. So when he needed something, he just had to find the right drawer and then he could remember the thing he had put in there.

It hadn’t been easy. Sherlock had spent a lot of time kicking his mental filing cabinet when it wouldn’t yield the information he wanted. But then one day he had realised that he wasn’t his pompous brother. A boring cabinet with index labels and all that stuff might be fine for Mycroft, but it was far too mundane for Sherlock’s mind.

So he had built himself a house. A small one at first, but it was always growing. Just like the large tree in whose branches it was nestled. At first it had been a single room, filled with boxes and books in which Sherlock could store all his knowledge. But it had soon become too small and he had added a second room. And then a third. And a fourth. Now the tree house looked like a small mansion, resting high above the ground in the crown of a mighty oak.

Carrying the skull with him, he entered the mansion and climbed the stairs to the second floor. At the end of the corridor, next to the bathroom (where he kept all of Mycroft’s dirty secrets), he had put all the medical stuff he had read on the shelves of a large linen cabinet. There was a shelf for diseases, one for trauma, the cardiovascular system, the brain and… there! The skeleton. It was a large volume, compiled of pages and clippings from various books and magazines he had read over the last two years. Some of it he hadn’t quite understood at the time, but going back to look at it later often helped. It didn’t take long to find what he needed.

He lifted the skull up and ran a finger along the ridge of the left eye socket. Then he traced the temporal lines and nodded. “Yup,” he whispered. “You were definitely a man.” He thought for a moment. “I’m going to call you Billy. Is that okay?”

The skull didn’t object, so that was settled. Now it was time to figure out more about Billy’s death. He searched the trauma shelf for anything about hanging and decapitation, but nothing was really useful when you only had a skull. So he withdrew to the drawing room where he kept the comfortable chair for thinking.

He thought so hard and for so long that he eventually fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	4. Chapter 4

When he woke up, the room was almost dark. It took a moment to work out that he was not in the drawing room of his tree mansion, but in the basement flat of 221 Baker Street. It was late evening, it seemed. And the room was really, really cold. Sherlock shivered.

He needed his blanket. And his spare clothes. And he needed his money for when he would move on tomorrow morning.

He put Billy down on the floor and tiptoed over to the door and out to the foot of the stairs. He listened for over a minute, but there came no sounds from the flat above him. So he crept up the stairs and listened by the door. Still nothing.

Carefully he opened the door and slipped through it. He let out a silent sigh. It was so much warmer up here. If only Mrs Hudson hadn’t betrayed him, he could have spent the night warm and comfortable on her sofa instead of shivering on the floor downstairs.

But she had proved that she could not be trusted. And it was still better than sleeping on the street or in another park. Sherlock let himself into her flat and went over to the sofa, where he had left his bag when they went out to visit the Turners. It wasn’t there!

Could she have given it to the police?

No, the young constable had not been inside the house. And Sherlock was pretty sure Mrs Hudson hadn’t gone out again. She would have been home for the rest of the day, hoping that he would turn up.

So she must have hidden it somewhere. Who would have thought she could be so devious? But then again, he hadn’t thought she would sell him out like that. He clearly wasn’t as good at reading people as he had thought. Good thing Mycroft wasn’t here to rub his nose in it.

He looked around the room. Where would she keep it?

It didn’t take long to figure out. She’d be keeping it somewhere safe. Somewhere where he couldn’t just sneak in and take it. Her bedroom! Where she was sleeping right now.

He crept over to the door and listened. She was indeed asleep. Snoring lightly. He counted the seconds between her breaths. She was in stage 2 sleep, it seemed. If he went in now, the risk of waking her would be too high. He’d have to wait for stage 3. 4 would be best, but then she could slip into REM and, depending on what kind of dream she had, she might wake up while he was still in the room.

He sat down, his back to the door, and watched the minutes tick by on the large clock over the table. Every five minutes he’d listen again until her breathing had slowed down enough for it to seem safe.

He was prepared to pick the lock if necessary, but the door opened with a soft click as soon as he turned the knob. The bed was over by the window and opposite it was a wardrobe and a small wooden dresser. Several boxes were stacked along the wall. They seemed light, so they must contain clothes and linen.

There was also a small nightstand, right by the bed, but the drawer was too small to hold his bag. Since it wasn’t visible, it would either be in the wardrobe, the dresser or under the bed. She would not have put it in one of the boxes, as they weren’t an actual part of the room to her.

He studied the drawers of the dresser. They were all neatly closed and, upon further examination, still carried remnants of the sticky tape that had been used to keep them closed when it was being transported from the shop to the flat. She hadn’t begun using it yet.

This, of course, did not mean that she could not have put his bag in there, but it didn’t seem likely.

So he continued over to the wardrobe, giggling silently at the memory of what he had found in the one downstairs. But Mrs Hudson would not have any skeletons in her closet. At least not literal ones.

She did, as expected, have his bag there. It was right at the back, propped in next to a cardboard box covered in colourful flowers and birds. As Sherlock pulled out his bag, the lid of the box loosened and slid off, landing on the bottom of the wardrobe with a very faint thud.

Sherlock held his breath, listening to Mrs Hudson. She did not stir and he was about to dart from the room, when he noticed the contents of the box.

Papers… Letters, it seemed. And right on top of them a worn, leather-bound book. A diary. Mrs Hudson’s diary.

Sherlock was a curious child, but he was not a snoop. Only when it came to prats like Mycroft, who deserved to be spied upon. But… didn’t that apply to Mrs Hudson as well? She had pretended to be his friend, only so she could betray him. Sell him out.

So he owed her no courtesy or consideration. After putting the bag over his shoulder, he picked up the box and hurried from the room, only pausing to close the door softly behind him.

He did not relax before he was back in the basement flat where he put the box down in a corner. He would look at it tomorrow. He got his blanket out of the bag, along with one of the packets of biscuits he had brought from home. He just had two and then put the packet back, not knowing when he’d be able to find new provisions. Then he curled up on the floor, using his bag as a pillow. He pulled the blanket around him and was soon asleep.

 

…

 

When he woke up, the first thing he noticed what that it was early morning. Very early. The second thing he noticed was that he really really really needed to use the bathroom. He was standing in the door, clutching a small pack of tissues, before he realised that there might be two problems. First of all, the water might be disconnected, in which case he wouldn’t be able to flush. And secondly, if he could flush, would Mr. Hudson be able to hear it? A lot of the plumbing in houses like this was old and notoriously noisy. He bit his lip and crossed his legs. What were his alternatives?

He closed the door and even locked it, though that was definitely unnecessary.

When he was done, he closed his eyes and muttered a silent prayer before pulling the chain. There was some sputtering and a faint hiss and then the water gushed into the toilet. Much too noisy.

He hurried to let himself out of the bathroom and darted to the door by the stairs, listening.

Nothing. He waited, holding his breath. Still nothing. Finally he let himself believe that he had gotten away with it and returned to the bathroom to wash his hands. He didn’t have a towel, but rubbed his palms on his trousers.

Back in the sitting room, he brought the box over to his blankets, got himself a biscuit and began examining the contents.

The diary looked very promising, but he put it aside, wanting to examine the letters first. Some of them were very old and seemed to be from Mrs Hudson’s friends when she had been a young woman. In a few of them, surprisingly few, a boyfriend or fiancé was mentioned. One friend in particular expressed concerns about this man. Frank! Mr Hudson!

Sherlock read the last letter again. The friend dropped a lot of hints that she knew something about Frank. Something bad. And then they stopped. A few cards about a wedding and then nothing.

That was odd. If Mr Hudson had moved abroad after her wedding, wouldn’t the letters have increased? Of course she could just have put them somewhere else, but why would she do that? It just didn’t make sense.

So he turned to the diary. The first many pages told the same story as the letters and he just flicked quickly through those. Then came a note about the wedding and a large gap. She seemed to have given up on her diary for several years but then, only eighteen months ago, she had picked it up again.

Things with Frank hadn’t gone quite as she had hoped. It had been an adventure at first, but then reality had reared its head. The reality of living in a foreign country where you might master the language but nothing else made any sense. The reality of living with a man with whom she only shared (Sherlock blushed and almost put the diary down) ‘physical attraction’. And - Sherlock actually cried out as he read this - the reality of accepting and then, to a small extent, aiding her husband in his illegal business of distributing various narcotics. Mrs Hudson referred to it as a ‘drug cartel’ but Sherlock wasn’t familiar with the term.

All these things seemed to pale though, at least to Mrs Hudson, in the light of the new development in her life. Frank was drifting away from her. He would stay out most nights and when he was home, he would be distant and often ill tempered. Classical symptoms of a man having an affair, Sherlock believed. Mrs Hudson had, it seemed, suspected nothing. Not until her husband’s mistress (one of many, as far as Sherlock could tell) had come forward to supply his alibi.

She was obviously lying. Not about the affair but about the night the murder had occurred. Between the pages of the diary, Sherlock found a newspaper clipping of an article, describing her appearance at the hearing. There was even a picture and just by looking at her posture, Sherlock was certain she was lying.

The entries stopped here, but Sherlock found smudges on the following pages, proving that more articles had been hidden here. Where were they now? The box was empty, so they couldn’t just have fallen out during the move. She must have put them somewhere else. Why? And where?

Sherlock glanced at the window. It was lighter outside, but the sun had not yet risen. Perhaps there was still time. He put the diary back inside the box and tiptoed out to the stairs. When he heard no sound from above, he hurried up and let himself back inside Mrs Hudson’s flat.

He looked around and realised that he had no idea where to begin his search. Not that it would have mattered. He only just barely sensed movement behind him and then the door to the flat closed with a loud click.

“Oh, Billy, dear!” Mrs Hudson stepped towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I mean Sherlock, of course… I’m so glad you’re safe. You gave me such a fright.”

Sherlock whirled around and stared up at her. How had she snuck up on him? Had she been hiding behind the door? "I... I don't want to go home!" he stammered.

Mrs Hudson squeezed his shoulder a little. "We'll see what we can do about that. Maybe you can stay with me a little longer. But your parents at least need to know where you are and that you are safe. You understand that, don't you?"

"They're not even home," Sherlock muttered, for the first time realising that Mycroft must have alerted their parents by now. That they would be worried.

He tried counting in German. He tried listing all the bones in the human hand. Then he tried biting his lip. None of it worked and the tears began tumbling down his cheeks.

"Oh, poor dear," Mrs Hudson muttered, kneeling and pulling him into a hug. "It will all be fine. I should probably warn you that I've invited a policeman here, but you don't have to be afraid of him. He looks like a nice lad so I'm sure he'll figure out what action is best for you." She rubbed his back a little.

He buried his face in the soft, shiny fabric of her robe and sniffed. He wasn't used to being hugged but it felt good. It made the crying hurt less.

"There, there," Mrs Hudson said, patting his hair. She held him a while longer, then asked: "How about a good breakfast while we wait for the policeman? That should cheer you up, right?"

Sherlock was going to protest that he wasn't hungry but his stomach disagreed loudly. He couldn't help but giggle a little and nodded. "I'd like that," he mumbled.

Mrs Hudson straightened up and smiled at him. "Good. One pirate breakfast, coming up."

He let her take his hand and lead him to the kitchen where he sat at the table in the corner while she began preparing the food. "Did you hear me flush?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. It had been a stupid thing to do.

But to his surprise, she answered: "No. I don't believe I did. I was going out to get the mail when I heard noises on the basement stairs. I didn't know if it was a burglar or a lost boy, so I hid."

In spite of himself, Sherlock giggled. "So you didn't know I was down there? Before you heard me?"

"No," she said, her friendly smile wavering as she put the bacon in a pan. "I thought you were all alone out in the cold. You gave me quite a fright, Sherlock. I'm glad it turned out you were safe."

He almost apologised. "I wouldn't have been," he said, attempting an accusing glare. "If you hadn't betrayed me."

"Betrayed?" Mrs Hudson repeated, turning towards Sherlock. "So you'd rather leave your family worried sick about you? And have me arrested for kidnapping because I found you but didn't alert the police?" She raised her eyebrows.

Sherlock looked away and muttered: "You could have told me..."

"And you wouldn't have run away as soon as I did?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"I ran away anyway," Sherlock pointed out. "At least you wouldn't have lied to me. We could have stayed friends. Sort of."

"I suppose that's true. I'm sorry I lied. It's a very bad habit." Mrs Hudson looked sad for a moment. "Do you think you can ever forgive me?" She picked the bacon out of the pan and poured in the eggs.

"Of course I can," Sherlock said. "I... I just don't know if I can trust you..."

"Fair enough," Mrs Hudson said. "I suppose for now it's enough if you trust me to make a good breakfast, right?" She smiled and popped some bread into the toaster. "Shall I cut them into little boats this time or is there another shape you'd like?"

Blushing a little, Sherlock squirmed in his chair. "You don't have to cut them," he said. "They taste the same no matter what shape they are."

"Are you sure?" Mrs Hudson asked. "You seemed to enjoy them very much yesterday. And I'm good with a knife, so it's really no trouble at all."

"They were funny," Sherlock said. "I'd never seen toast cut like that before so it was interesting..." Letting her do something like that for him felt too much like forgiving her. And he wasn't quite ready for that. Not yet.

 


	5. Chapter 5

As Sherlock ate his food in silence, he looked at the square pieces of toast and realised that it _would_ have been nice to have them cut into something interesting. It had made him feel so special yesterday. That Mrs Hudson had made that extra effort just for him. He glanced at her, quickly, hoping she hadn't noticed his hesitation.

"Oh," she said, "maybe I should fetch your bag for you. I'd kept it safe for you, but maybe you'll need it when the policeman is here." She got up and started walking in the direction of her bedroom door.

In his mind, Sherlock quickly went over several different ways in which he could somehow get the bag into the wardrobe before she would realise it was missing, but none of them were plausible and a few actually quite dangerous. So he sighed and muttered: "Don't... It's not there..."

Mrs Hudson frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I took it," he admitted. "Last night while you were sleeping. I needed my blanket to keep warm. And... I also took some other things. Borrowed them..." He looked down, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

Mrs Hudson crossed her arms. "Young man, did you steal from me?"

Sherlock stuck out his chin. "I didn't steal anything. It's still inside your house." Technically that was correct, but Sherlock also knew, from his run-ins with Mycroft, that reading someone's diary was the worst sin of all. And surely personal letters belonged in that category too. He hoped his hair was covering his ears because they were feeling so hot by now that he wouldn't be surprised if they were actually glowing.

For a moment Mrs Hudson almost seemed amused, but she still sounded stern as she asked: "What else did you 'borrow' then?" And then her eyes went wide. "Oh... The closet. You didn't... You didn't touch that box, did you?"

Sherlock deflated completely. "I'm sorry... I was angry and... curious..."

Mrs Hudson pressed her hand to her mouth in shock. "Oh dear. But you didn't read it, did you?" There was quite a bit of panic in her voice.

“I sort of did,” he admitted. “And…” he added quickly, seeing her anxious expression. “I know there’s more. Do you have the other articles? The ones that are missing? Do they have any pictures?”

Mrs Hudson was just staring at him now. "Oh..." she finally managed in a shaky voice. "You've... You've read it all? And you're still here?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock said, holding out his hand to her. She seemed more embarrassed than angry, which he supposed was good, considering the police were on their way, but it might make her less inclined to let him see the other articles. And what else she might have. "None of it was your fault. I... I just want to help you."

Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand and sighed. "That's sweet of you, but... What can you do? We can't go back in time and make things right."

"No, but I might be able to work out who really killed that man. And where your husband really was that night. Because that woman was obviously lying." Sherlock had forgotten about his food and jumped off his chair, wanting to fetch the box so that he could show her what he meant.

"Well..." Mrs Hudson said hesitantly. "If you really want to have a look... But oh, you must think me so silly for having gone with him in the first place..."

"Not at all," Sherlock assured her. "Men like that are excellent liars. You didn't know what he was like. Before it was too late."

Mrs Hudson gave him a puzzled look, but nodded. "You're very wise for your age. Who knows, perhaps you _can_ help me." She got up and nodded to herself again. "I'll... I'll get you the other papers."

Sherlock hesitated, then sat down again. "I can't promise anything!" he called after her.

 

It wasn’t long before Mrs Hudson returned with a thick folder. “I collected everything I thought relevant in case I found the courage to talk to a lawyer,” she told Sherlock as she put it down in front of him.

"So you haven't?" Sherlock asked, studying the folder. There was a lot of material and they didn't have much time. He'd have to select carefully what he would focus on. Then suddenly he looked up at her. "Has he threatened you? Threatened to implicate you in his business if you didn't support him?"

Mrs Hudson sighed. "He could have spared himself the effort. You've read what I did. What I knew. I _was_ part of it. And that's the problem. I can't tell anything to anyone without getting into a lot of trouble myself. They'd bring me back to America to go to prison and... His people would find me all too easily. I've seen what they do to snitches..." She shuddered.

Sherlock bit his lip. "But what if... What if you had something really good to tell?" he asked. "Can't you..." He had to search his memory for the expression. "Make a deal?"

“Perhaps,” Mrs Hudson said. “But still, if Frank ever found out…”

"He doesn't have to know where it came from." Sherlock smiled. "Especially since the information will not be something he'll expect you to know. He'll just think that the American police was too clever for him." He giggled and opened the folder, flipping through the papers.

It was mostly articles, but there was also a copy of Mrs Hudson’s statement to the police and a few letters from what must have been their housekeeper. He scanned it all quickly, then held up one of the clippings. “What is this? It’s a different murder, but…”

“Yes…” Mrs Hudson sighed. “It was quite similar. One of the people high up in Frank’s ranks, shot in the head with a very big gun. Just like Carlos.”

“But he was not accused of this one? Clearly it is the same culprit… Unless one of them was deliberately made to resemble the other one…” Sherlock frowned at the date. “This one happened almost a month before the other one. Why wasn’t Mr Hudson a suspect?”

“He had a solid alibi that time,” Mrs Hudson answered. “Not some harpy who belatedly came in to say he was sharing her bed. Our housekeeper was cleaning the windows, and she vouched that Frank was in his office the entire day. He even asked her to bring him a drink at some point, so he couldn’t have climbed out of the window or anything like that. And Celia is a lovely woman. Very trustworthy. We’ve always gotten along well, so I believe her and clearly the police did, too.” She shook her head and emptied her teacup. “It makes things so much harder, though. Frank’s lawyer based a large part of his plea on the fact that he didn’t commit that first murder. And yet I have this feeling that he can’t really be innocent. That even if he didn’t do it directly, he must have given the order or something. But if I told anyone that, they’d be taking apart the organisation and discover my role in it.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. Disregarding the other articles, he picked up the letters, sorted them by date and then began reading, the newest first.

After 10 minutes, he looked up at her, beaming. “I have some very good news, Mrs Hudson. Your husband is a double murderer and there is a very good chance that the state of Florida will be willing to give you a very good deal for telling them this.”

Mrs Hudson gasped. “Dear boy… You mustn’t just tell me what you think I’m willing to hear. It’s very kind of you, but… How could you possibly be sure he’s a murderer when the police hasn’t found any proof?”

Sherlock put the papers down on the table, next to each other. “This one,” he said, “was written right after the second murder. Your housekeeper was away, visiting her daughter. Or so she claimed. She was lying. Just see how she keeps repeating the same details over and over. She wanted to make it very clear where she was. And why. And she was scared, which you can tell from the shaky writing and the many mistakes. But most of all from the frantic way in which she has crossed this part out. She almost told you something she shouldn’t.”

He pointed at the next letter. “This one is two weeks later. Her daughter is doing better, she claims. Much better, it seems. So well, in fact, that her mother has decided to go out and celebrate. Not only was she inebriated when writing this, but she was wearing a rather expensive perfume and either staying in a fancy hotel or visiting someone with a well-equipped home office. This paper is much better quality and she’s been using a Parker Duofold.”

“Maybe… maybe she was with a friend…” Mrs Hudson said. “Or a new date with some money… It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“The final one here was after the second murder. She expresses her sympathy and regrets that she cannot continue to work for you. It is much shorter than the others but the sentences are longer. She is trying, and failing, not to be too emotional. This discolouration here looks like a tear that was hastily dried off.”

He sat back, waiting for her reaction.

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this.” Mrs Hudson’s fingers were shaking a little as she refilled her cup.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock said. It clearly wasn’t. He sighed and made an effort not to use what Mycroft called his ‘smart voice’. “Your husband wasn’t home at the time of the first murder. But he convinced your housekeeper to lie for him. He must have threatened her, because she left your house shortly afterwards to hide. Probably not with her daughter, but rather with some friend or relative. Like a sister or cousin. This made Mr Hudson nervous, and he must have paid her a large sum of money which explains the differences in the second letter. I suspect she brought her friend on a trip to celebrate. Look how tanned she was in court.” He pointed to a picture under one of the articles. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“It… Yes… That’s Celia,” Mrs Hudson said, looking uncertain.

“She gave the statement she was paid to give, but felt really bad about it. Which is why she wrote the third letter. She felt sorry for you.” Sherlock cocked his head and studied the picture for a moment. “She will crack easily once confronted,” he said. “She never wanted to lie in the first place. And though she’ll face charges for obstruction of justice, I’m pretty sure she can make a deal for a reduced sentence.”

“I… This…” Mrs Hudson stammered. “This is a lot to take in. Do you really think it will be enough? But it should be, shouldn’t it? If he actually didn’t have an alibi… Everything that did lead to Frank… I can’t believe Celia was lying, but if it earned her enough for her daughter’s education and that vacation she was always going on about…” She was mainly talking to herself now, so Sherlock didn’t interrupt her, giving her time to see that what he said made sense.

“You… You may have saved my life,” Mrs Hudson said finally. “Sherlock, dear… How can I ever thank you enough?”

Sherlock stared at her, the thrill of the puzzle still buzzing in his head. "You... You believe me?"

Mrs Hudson frowned. "What do you mean, do I believe you? You've just explained everything! You weren't just making it up, were you?"

"I wasn't, but... I'm just a kid... People don't usually believe I'd understand something like this." Sherlock was so used to feeling angry and hurt in the moment of discovery, he didn't know what to do with this reaction.

"I've already seen you're a very clever boy, haven't I?" Mrs Hudson said, smiling. She was about to say more, but the doorbell rang. "Oh... That'll be Constable Lestrade," she said. "I'll get the door. You won't run again, right, dear?"

He shook his head, still a little startled by her praise. "No.... I'm ready to go home now." Maybe Mycroft had learned his lesson. Maybe he wouldn't be so intolerable. At least for a while.

She smiled and went to open the door. Except for Mrs Hudson's greeting, Sherlock couldn't make out much of the short conversation that went on there. But then the door to the flat opened again and Mrs Hudson was followed not only by the policeman Sherlock had seen the day before, but also by Mycroft.

"Sherlock!" he cried out immediately, striding over and grabbing Sherlock's shoulder. "What were you thinking?"

Sherlock glared up at him. So it hadn't changed anything. Mycroft was still a superior bastard. "I was thinking that I needed a break," he said coldly. "From you. So I wouldn't throttle you in your sleep."

“Now, Sherlock, don’t be like that,” Mrs Hudson said. “Your brother has been very worried about you.”

“I was.” Mycroft was doing his serious-act, but Sherlock always thought it just made him look like he was trying not to poop. “And so were Mummy and Daddy. They are on their way home now.”

"Good!" Sherlock did not feel like crying. Not really. Maybe he had caught a cold, sleeping in a park and an unheated basement. Then he gasped. "My things!" he said, getting to his feet. "I have to go get my things."

Mycroft stopped him. “ _Good_? You spoiled their holiday. Left us all imagining the horrible things that could have happened to you. Are you really so foolish that you think something _good_ could come of this?”

“Don’t be too harsh,” the constable told Mycroft. “From what I’ve seen, he’s been in very capable hands.” He gestured at Mrs Hudson.

“I’ll write down my phone number for you,” Mrs Hudson said. “So your parents can contact me. I’d like it very much of Sherlock could come and visit me now and then, so he doesn’t need to feel so lonely that he goes and does dangerous things like coming to London all on his own.”

Sherlock smiled at her before rushing past his brother and down the stairs. That would be nice. Maybe next time his parents went away, they’d let him stay here instead of leaving him with Mycroft. As he was folding up his blanket, he noticed the skull sitting forlornly on the floor. “I’m sorry, Billy,” he said. “I’m going home, so we can’t go on adventures together. And I don’t think Mycroft will let me keep you. I expect the constable upstairs will be wanting to take you with him. Maybe he can solve your murder.”

His bag packed, Sherlock picked up Billy and made his way back upstairs where the others were waiting.

“What have you got there, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock held the skull up so they could all see it. “I… I found this in the closet. I think he’s been murdered.”

“What?” the constable said, taking a step closer to look at the skull.

But Mrs Hudson laughed. “Oh, no, dear. That skull probably belonged to the previous owner of this house. He was a doctor, you know. A very nice old man. He told me that his father and grandfather had been doctors too, so this might be a very old skull indeed.”

“Oh…” Sherlock looked down at Billy and had to bite his lip not to let his disappointment show. “That’s okay then... “ He looked up at her. “So I guess this belongs to you.”

“Oh, it’s only catching dust in the basement,” she said. “If I’d known it was still there, I might have thrown it away. Would you like to have it, perhaps? It quite suits a pirate to have his own skull, don’t you think?”

Blushing a little, Sherlock looked at Mycroft. “Can I?” he asked.

“It could be valuable to study human anatomy,” his brother answered. “As long as you keep it in your room, I doubt our parents will object.”

“Thank you!” Sherlock beamed up at his brother and then handed him the skull.

Mycroft held it up in one hand, looking at it a little awkwardly. “What…”

Sherlock ignored him and rushed over to fling his arms around Mrs. Hudson. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Mrs Hudson said, hugging him back, “and thank _you_ for all your help…”

Mycroft was looking even more puzzled when she finally let go of Sherlock and held out her hand to him. “Take good care of your brother, Mr Holmes. He’s a sweet, brilliant boy.”

Mycroft solemnly took her hand. “I will. Thank you for looking after him.”

And with that, they left number 221.


End file.
